


The Evanescence of Doves

by 13ways



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Bottom Louis, Brief mention of Jay’s death, Canon Compliant, Car Sex, HS1, Jamaica, M/M, Sad, Semi-Public Sex, Unprotected Sex, airport brawl, harry at Newark 2017, harry in Jamaica 2016, like the song partition, louis in Jamaica 2017, will probably break your heart if you are a 1D og fan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 03:36:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19862860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13ways/pseuds/13ways
Summary: A last, canon compliant fic. Harry and Louis and their turbulent life in 2016-17. This story is based on as much of the real timeline as possible, with research done over Tumblr, Twitter, Instagram, and other places. It does mention Louis’ airport incident and the writing of Harry’s first album. It is somewhat bittersweet, since we do not have Louis’ album yet, as of summer 2019.These past few stories gave me a chance to look back at some of the best memories we’ve shared in the fandom. Thank you, One Direction.





	The Evanescence of Doves

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to my friend Stella, who has been there through thick and thin. You’re an atom and a galaxy, my purest magic. 
> 
> This is part of a Wordplay prompt challenge for the prompt "eminent". To read the amazing fics that were written by the others on this prompt, [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/eminent), and to see all fics written as part of the challenge (including years 1 and 2), [click here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wordplay_fic_challenge/works). You can also find the masterpost for this year’s challenge [here](https://wordplayfics.tumblr.com/post/185709101043/wordplay-2019-every-week-for-five-weeks-a-prompt).

“I am content when wakened birds,   
Before they fly, test the reality   
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;   
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields   
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?”

  * from [**_Sunday Morning_**](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/13261/sunday-morning), by Wallace Stevens



March 15, 2017 

One spring morning in 2017, a dozen white doves fly into the garage of an apartment building in New York City. No one knows where they came from; the common street pigeon is usually the king in New York. Did the doves escape the private cages of an off-the-clock magician? The birds make their ambiguous undulations, rising and sinking on pockets of warm air. 

With a sideways glance at the doves, Harry Styles tosses his duffle into the back of a black SUV and slams the trunk closed. His flight is still on time, according to the airline’s iPhone app, though Winter Storm Stella has been steadily creeping up the coast. According to the latest update, only a handful of flights have been cancelled so far.

Harry Styles is leaving tonight, Louis Tomlinson in the morning. Their flights have been staggered, as always.

They’ve asked the car service to come forty-five minutes early, just in case. Right on time, a tuxedo-black Escalade with darkly tinted windows and a built-in partition pulls up to the private entrance, inside the building’s garage. By now, they’re used to such planned maneuvers. They never go through the front entrance of hotels, for instance, never book flights or hire cars under their real names, have disabled geotags on everything connected to them.

But goodbyes are still hard, even after seven years. They can rely on the car service to be professional and discreet, but given the track record of celebrity leaks at New York’s airports, one can’t be too careful. 

Harry will greet both paps and fans tonight. His first solo album is dropping soon, and fan service generates buzz, so it’s his responsibility to do it. He knits his eyebrows and tries to look calm and neutral, but the jitters rise up nevertheless. How does one prepare for something like this? 

Jeff tells him it’s under control, it’s all gonna be _so_ fucking great. Irving looks at him under those quizzical, owl-like eyebrows and says, “Harry, you’re a fucking star. You’re about to be written into the history books. I’ll get you there if I have to kill someone.” The Azoffs pass some opaque looks back and forth, and Harry doesn’t know what to think. _It’s okay,_ Jeff mouthes. _Don’t worry about it._

The months of quiet, boundless sun in Jamaica, the quirky choices he’d made on the album’s production (the full gospel choir! and the trumpets he finally got!), the fat blunts and sloshy shots of tequila and after-midnight swims— they’re all in the rearview now. After his film wrapped, and there were no more reshoots, after the godchildren were born and the new tattoos no longer itched, private-Harry is also going into storage. Public-Harry is about to burst through pop culture’s consciousness like a young Elvis Presley.

Harry leaving tonight means Louis will lie low. Their photos are timed to be released days apart. One is always slightly ahead or slightly behind, never in the same place at the same time. They don’t live together; they don’t know each other. They exist in two diametrically opposing planes. 

Nevertheless, public speculation never stops. Sometimes Harry clicks through Twitter for kicks, but he’s seldom entertained. It’s almost a sick compulsion. The incessant online gossip makes Harry anxious. He and Louis are supposedly in love, they definitely hate each other, they’re just friends, they can barely tolerate the sight of each other. They live together. But also breathe from two atmospheres on two different planets, in two separate solar systems. They’re everything from hate-fuck buddies to soulmates to enemies, paper characters in someone else’s world. In years to come, they will learn to ignore it completely. But it is still early. 

Harry knows it’s stupid to care; he can’t control what people say. He and Louis are real people. He knows what Louis means to him, and that’s all that matters, isn’t it? But the careless way that people treat them nags at him. He sleeps badly. He has vivid dreams but can’t remember any of them. He’s up pacing and strumming chords on the guitar at 3 AM, trying to decide if it’s too early or too late to call friends, writing down lyrics that feel all wrong. Too many words, too much thinking, not enough sleep. Not enough time spent with people he loves. Just— not enough time. It slips through his hands.

Louis was supposed to be the lead story this week, defending Eleanor from the hired paparazzi at LAX. However, they hadn’t counted on Eleanor getting into an ugly scrap with a rough fan. The whole plan had backfired spectacularly. 

_It’s a fucking mess, is what it is,_ Harry thinks. He still has fresh memories of texts from Oli saying that Louis was… in jail? What the bloody hell? Louis’ team couldn’t even keep him safe— in any physical or legal way. Unfortunately, Harry could only watch from New York, waiting helplessly while Simon’s people worked on getting him out, no phone call or any other communication for hours. 

It was gut wrenching to finally watch the video footage, to see the moment Louis realized things were falling apart. His high, clear voice rose alarmingly; his body sprang up like a protective bear, or a soldier going into battle. Louis’ the man everyone calls on in a crisis, the patron saint of Hail Marys. He carries everyone’s fucking battle scars on his thin shoulders. 

Yet no one had been there for him. 

Eleanor had left LA pretty soon after the incident. As much as Harry wants to cleave her away, he knows that El is here to stay, at least for the time being. 

_Just stick to the matching tracksuits,_ Harry wants to scream, _Don’t make things harder. Louis’ situation is already fucked up beyond imagination. Don’t make it bad for him. Please._

After getting out of jail, Louis’ texts to Harry were curt and cold, containing few details. Louis was furious, angry at himself for letting it get out of control, angry about the consequences. Over the years, Louis had tamed his tendency to take over an abysmal situation. He learned to be patient, not to burn bridges. He learned the positive aspects of working with— certain people. The people around them were here because they had jobs to do; there was no use chafing against the system when it wasn’t personal. It might be a _goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation,_ but Louis learned to observe and wait. Patience, grace, tolerance. They knew what these words mean, but putting them into practice means biting back their feelings on the regular, putting on a smile, not rolling their eyes. 

Letting things go when they have no control. 

Well, not this time. Louis had gotten wildly drunk with Oli, chain smoking until his body was a pile of ashes. Cases of Stella Artois lay open all around the pool. Louis hurled the empty bottles on the concrete patio until he covered it in broken shards, and Oli had to clean it up the next day, sweeping the glass like wind chimes. He walked Louis to his bed and took his shoes off amidst loads of incoherent Yorkshire swearing. Like a maniac, Louis drove down the canyon, phone muted, cutting out all connections to the outside world, even to Harry. He avoided his management breathing down his neck and cut himself off from his lawyers. He was shadowed only by the howling ghosts in the canyon, the speckled insomnia of LA nights. 

A dozen white doves followed his Range Rover, a line of pale fluttering against the curtained sky. When Louis howled at the midnight moon, the birds dipped in a perfect parabola, beauty and pain being one and the same. 

•••••

The sky will be much friendlier then than now,   
A part of labor and a part of pain,   
And next in glory to enduring love,   
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

  * from [**_Sunday Morning_**](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/13261/sunday-morning), by Wallace Stevens



February 28, 2017

[ **People Think Louis Tomlinson & Eleanor Calder Are Holidaying Together in Jamaica** ](https://www.capitalfm.com/artists/one-direction/louis-tomlinson/news/eleanor-calder-back-together-dating/)

_Here goes nothing_ , Louis had texted Harry, then followed it with an upside down smiling emoji. Louis had waited at a crossroads between two terminals, right in front of a food court, until a fan spotted him. Photos were snapped and posted, and then the news spread like wildfire. _Louis Tomlinson on holiday with Eleanor Calder._

Jamaica had been, in a sense, Louis and Harry’s special place, but the _idea_ of Jamaica was also cleaving into two— Harry with his album crew, and Louis with Eleanor. 

In 2016, while he wrote his album, Harry had called Louis from Jamaica excitedly, giving him details of song after song. Louis tried to listen, but the background noise was always so loud. It seemed Harry was perpetually in the midst of crowds, men drinking and talking, women too, soft murmurs, raucous clanging and laughter, indistinct hums of smoky camaraderie. 

_It sounds dead brilliant!_ Louis had shouted back at the phone, not able to hear much. 

Harry’s calls came sporadically, and then trailed off as Harry concentrated on getting songs done. His phone was always turned off in the studios. 

Louis didn’t want to interrupt his creative process; he knew it was important to concentrate when writing songs. He missed Harry terribly. Without him, days were colorless. 

Louis could be writing, too, he thought, but there was too much on his mind. Negotiation after negotiation took time. Then there were phone conversations he wanted to avoid, pap walks, arrangements to fly back and forth from England. His heart was cut into pieces. He hadn’t had time to gather it all back. 

Now, with Eleanor in tow, Louis was surrounded by silence, sadness, cacophony. By birds and winds and tides. By everything that meant something once, under the moonlight, and by Louis’ enormous loss that would never stop hurting. When 2016 ended, so did a part of Louis. He wanted to come to some equilibrium where grief would not overwhelm his days. Nothing and no one would ever be there for him like his mother Jay, never again. The sun’s bright glare only brought to surface how much he struggled, day by day. Each day was a fresh wound. 

Not having Harry with him, on these familiar grounds, made it worse. 

He was here to send a message via social media, and he considered the weight of the message, the meaning of these two words. 

_Always._

A loaded word for Louis. _Always in my heart, my deepest love, my one and only._ It was a special word, and it had a holy meaning. They’d said it to each other when they felt lost, on the road, backstage. They repeated it in each other’s arms, lying in one bed with limbs entwined, the hotel rooms dark and cavernous around them, only the sweet smells of each other anchoring them to home. They said it with their restless eyes during band interviews, when they couldn’t speak the words out loud, when their skin could not touch. _Always_ was their prayer. _Always_ was their promise. 

_You are my always._

_**And you’re mine.** _

_Love you always._

_**I love you, Lou.** _

_Love you, Harry._

Now it was to be pinged out for Eleanor, everything once _theirs—_ once _his—_ now reconstructed for _her_. Louis dragged on the stub of the blunt and stared into the lens of his phone camera, arranging his face just so. He could see Harry reading his post, in the warmth of their bedroom, one hairy leg out, a hand on his belly, frowning and thinking. 

_[Always](https://twitter.com/louis_tomlinson/status/836045979061211137?s=21) is for you, _ Louis thought. He stared into infinity behind the phone. _Hope you know that, darling. I love you so._

He clicked the selfie. And, a little editing later, put it up on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/BQ_8Id5BSO2/?hl=en). He wondered what people will say, whether it would generate buzz… though he knew it would. With the divisive factions in the fandom, something like this drove itself; it was fandom catnip. Harry and Louis were the captured beasts that stared out beyond the iron bars, the caged Romeos and Juliets on display, but the audience was insatiable. They bought meat to throw, yelling at them do something, attack something, bite and draw blood. They wanted to see claws and savagery. 

Like a train wreck in slow motion, Louis followed his selfie with a caption. 

_You._

Louis dragged on the joint and smiled wryly, feeling the stiff ache in his cheeks, the smoke’s warmth relaxing him as it tunneled down his throat. He didn’t want to check Twitter, not yet. His phone was vibrating with a single text, the screen lighting up with a notification. He glanced sidelong at it and turned it off, tucking it into his pocket. His muscles felt easy, loose. Standing up, he walked slowly back through the hotel lobby to sit outside, under a palm tree by the pool. A waiter came and took his order for a vodka Red Bull.

The sound of the ocean in his ear, Louis stared at the napkin on the table. Something ticked in the back of his mind. The hook to the chorus had already been written, but now he had the harmony. It was sweet and loose, like his Harry, the way his mouth split his face in half with true joy, his crabby expression when he didn’t want to wake up, his annoyance when someone interrupted his work, the way his brows went from stormy to golden when he was surprised. 

The back of the lobby was open to the beachfront. The sea glimmered darkly in the distance. As Louis contemplated, a stream of white doves flew across, their wings swift as invisible angels. 

The harmony and chords of the chorus revealed themselves in his mind. Louis retrieved his phone, opened Garageband, and notated it. 

_I went to Amsterdam without you_  
_And all I could do was think about you_  
_Oh oh oh_

He smiled. Harry’s album would be out soon, in a little over a month. Then Louis’ would be out, that was the plan. They had played songs for each other, and each had made some suggestions. He could see the younger Louis on this beach long ago— a lifetime ago— here with his bandmate, his best friend, his whole world at age twenty-one. Between tours, they had come to Jamaica for fun and relaxation. They were pale British boys who had never seen the azure blue of the Caribbean, and they might have gone a little crazy. 

•••••

2013

 _Hands and knees for two days straight._ Harry had said that. On camera. And the look he gave Louis had been unforgettable. Harry’s eyes danced with everything they had ever done, and everything else still to come. His look had reduced Louis to a babbling idiot, incoherent and lost in their own world of wet kisses, fumbling in dark rooms, pretend-gropes that nevertheless gave them embarrassing public semi-erections that everyone— but everyone— could see. What a wicked and fucking brilliant good time. They always tried to one-up each other in those days, when they thought no one cared, unknotting each other in front of interviewers. They frustrated their handlers. Their sassy smiles held forbidden secrets, and they laughed— howled— about it backstage. Everything was fucking great. 

They had come to Jamaica for holiday because they’d heard that it was discreet, and welcoming to certain British celebrities who needed discretion. One night, Louis had lain on the sandy beach outside their bungalow and jokingly lined up four mango-infused body shots of rum on his belly, in a line from the chest to his groin. They were fearless and a little reckless. Nineteen-year-old Harry was up for _anything_. Harry had tossed back each shot until the last one, which spilled all over Louis.

Harry was already feeling hyped and warm. Now he was swaying from the alcohol. He half-faceplanted into Louis’ chest, teeth catching on one of his nipples. 

“Ow! Dickhead!”

“Heyyyyy, you,” Harry slurred, brows knitted, index finger swaggering. “Both of you… behave…”

“Very funny. Get off.” Louis’ hand pushed at his curls, one strand flopping over the forehead like a young giraffe.

“Make me.” Harry licked the rum from Louis’ skin, tongue sticky from sugar and a hint of mango. “Yummy, Lou, you, you yum.”

He picked up the bottle of rum and, slowly swaying, poured another shot. 

“D’you want some?” 

Louis’ eyes were affectionate. “Harru…”

“Do you?” Harry repeated, glazed and unsteady. He took another small sip. “Probably shouldn’t have had the Monsters, Lou. Now I’m buzzed _and_ wasted.”

“Me too,” Louis said. “Proper buzzed.”

“Why the hell not, then?” Harry extended his arm. Louis opened his pert mouth, and Harry poised the shot glass over it, pouring slowly but inaccurately, much of it splashing onto Louis’ face. 

Harry laid his lips over Louis’ and sucked some of the liquor out of his mouth, savoring the taste of Louis with it, warm and salty. Their bodies were sticky with liqueur, plastered with sweet, alcoholic fumes. Louis’ mouth was wet and deep, and it reminded Harry of another warm, deep, wet… they could… he felt himself thicken up with blood. He kissed harder, driving forward, trapping Louis on either side with his hard thighs. As they kissed, they both became needier, the kisses deeper and sloppier, and their hands reached down at the same time. 

They barely made it into bed. Louis’ legs were still hanging off the edge when Harry put his whole face on his crotch, licking a broad stripe from the balls up. Louis moaned hard, the alcohol making him dizzy in bed. His cock jerked up of its own accord and spurted drops of precome.

“Bloody hell, mate.” 

“Shhhh,” Harry exhales, face buried in pubic hair. “There are… children around… Lou, watch your… language.” 

“Fuck me,” Louis cackled. “You’re on me fucking balls, about to blow me. Is that fucking soft enough for you?” 

“‘M trying...” Harry smiled, froglike. “Trying my best to blow you, if you’d only shut up.” 

Harry’s tongue licked Louis’ foreskin sloppily, his rhythm only slightly off from alcohol. He knew just how Louis loved it, taking his whole tip in and sucking the foreskin off while licking hard under the head. Louis jumped when Harry added fingers, one hand at the base of his cock, jerking him in rhythm, and one finger tracing his hole. Harry’s mouth worked him over until moans flew out of Louis’ mouth. Soon, he was fucking Harry’s mouth as deep and fast as he could, his legs stiffly rutting, his ass raised off the bed and into the air. It was a good thing his abs were solid. A hand flew up to play with his own nipple, twisting it as his hip canted up toward Harry’s mouth. Harry pushed him, watching him come undone, moaning high and needy in his sex voice, one hand grabbing uselessly at Harry’s curls, the other hand manically fingering his own hardening nipple. 

“Babe,” Louis panted, “come on up here. Want to suck you too. I’m so fucking horny right now.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

Harry pulled himself into bed as Louis scooted toward the head. They positioned themselves in a sixty-nine position, Harry hovering above, both knees to Louis’ side, his face staring into the soft mound of Louis’ untrimmed pubic hair and the thick crimson shaft of his cock. Harry’s own long, elegant cock barely brushed Louis’ waiting lips. 

He lowered himself into Louis’ mouth, the wet warm feeling lighting his cock on fire. They began to find a rhythm, but both were accelerating wildly from the alcohol, going so fast and hard that it was almost unsustainable. It didn’t take two minutes before they were both on the verge, sweating and sucking while a tidal wave built up at the base of their spines. At the last minute, Harry inserted a finger into Louis’ hole and found his prostate, stroked it gently just how he liked it, and within five or six strokes felt Louis explode into his mouth. 

“Fuck!” Louis shouted, his hip at a standstill. “Fuck me!”

After Louis was done coming, he let Harry sink his entire cock into his throat, and sucked until he gagged, licking him raw. He pulled on Harry, hard, as Harry grunted and sank down, shooting his cream into Louis’ mouth. Louis licked it all up, making incoherent noises, the mess spreading down his lips and chin, dotting his lashes. He sucked softly on Harry’s cock to milk it dry. Meanwhile, Harry was meticulously cleaning Louis up, licking him everywhere, swirling his tongue on Louis’ head in a gentle, tender way. They breathed in rhythm as they came down, alcohol evaporating away, their dicks softening like juicy peaches. 

To commemorate their stay in Jamaica, Harry had planted a mango tree at the resort. The hotel made a plaque that is still standing there today. The night before they left, they had gone to visit the little sapling.

Looking at it, Harry said, “Have a good life, mate.”

“Happy birthday, little tree,” Louis repeated solemnly.

From behind, Harry pulled Louis into a hug and tickled him under the ribs, where he was most sensitive. Louis doubled over, the way he always did when Harry held him, helpless to Harry’s touch. Retaliating, Louis had elbowed Harry in the crotch. Right in the nuts. 

“You’re hurting our children!” Harry shouted. 

“Speak for yourself,” Louis retorted, running away. “Our children will come from my healthy nuts, won't you, darlings? Not from those demented beef oysters from your other dad.” 

“Oii, beef oysters! Get over here! 

Louis freed himself, running toward the ocean, stripping off as he went and entering the water nude. Harry gave chase, also tossing his shirt overhead, shoulders burnt from the day before, a sea of light freckles across his face. He dashed in after Louis and pulled him close. Louis’ sweaty smell made his head spin, all searing sun and cigs and coconut sunscreen. Harry loved Louis’ armpits hair tickling his arms as he wrapped arms around Harry, ready for a kiss. Harry pushed his lips apart and licked his tongue in, his large hands spread on Louis’ back as Louis tilted his head and let himself be kissed wantonly. Summer was for underwater sex, Harry thought, feeling the sentiment intensely. 

High above them, a flap of wings distracted Louis. Over the ocean? 

Louis broke off and looked. “What the hell?” 

A single dove did an arabesque in the air above them, like a fairy performing acrobatics. It had the pale blue color of a ghost. 

“Must be an angel,” Harry said. They watched the bird soar and dive, and then hover motionless before flying off. Harry pulled Louis closer. “Now kiss me.” 

Their bodies drifted weightlessly, skin touching skin. The ocean hid them and protected them. They were safe, warm, free. Their love could be as transparent as the tropical waters, greens bleeding blues into rainbows, a whole fucking spectrum shielding them like a magical energy shield. 

In Jamaica, the world was far away. While it slept, Harry and Louis stayed awake and kept on dreaming. They dreamed about the unspoken future, their family to come, their children and grandchildren. They dreamed about themselves and each other, the things that could be. Under a tropical moon, dreams could go on forever. They spun an entire lifetime for themselves. That was their Jamaica.

_At the end of the day, you want who you want, and you say what you say. You follow your heart, even though it may break sometimes._

That was true. The heart was always on the precipice of breaking. 

••••

March 15, 2017

Inside the Escalade, Louis sits waiting for Harry while he put his duffel bag in the trunk.

Harry enters the car and closes the door. The driver puts the car in drive, and merges into the crowded Outer Boroughs traffic.

“Alright, Lou?” Harry asks, once settled.

Louis tilts his chin to the side. “Who’s meeting you in London?” 

“Jeff.” 

Louis says nothing, looking out the window. Harry reaches over to touch the sleeve of his hoodie. 

“New one?” 

“Mmm.” Louis turns toward him. “Vetements.” 

Harry snorts. “I kind of like it.” 

“Do you?” Louis meets his eyes. “Eleanor has one just like it.” He watches a cloud crease over Harry’s eyebrows. 

“I’m sure it looks nice on her as well,” Harry’s answer is courteous but clipped. 

The car stops in the middle of the block. Everyone’s trying to leave the city. The traffic is locked up for three blocks. There’s either a stalled car or an accident a little ways uptown.

They watch as bicycle couriers pass their car at breakneck speed, inches away. Pedestrians with angry, empty faces scan the traffic lights and wait to cross, even though the cars are at a standstill. No one knows who’s riding in the back of the black Escalade. 

“I’ll see you in a week?” Louis offers tentatively. “Meet you back home in London.” 

“Mmmh.” 

Louis watches him as his fingers play with his lips, stiff, uncompromising. 

“You alright, love?” 

Harry is in a weird funk. The mention of Eleanor has sunken him into a mood. No matter how much he tries, she would always remind him that Louis is taken, in the public’s eyes. Louis has a girlfriend who came back to him, whom he truly loves. She’s the one who is loyal. She’s the one who stays for him. The slow storm that’s always inside Harry rises, winds blowing and gusting in his chest, darkening his heart. He wants to hurt someone, to break something. He wants shards that cut. 

“A little bit of love,” Harry quotes softly, under his breath, “is better than none.” 

Louis shifts uneasily. It’s a sensitive song for them. He reaches across and takes Harry’s dry, large hand in his own, and holds it without looking at his boy. He can feel the seething anger under Harry’s face, even under his placid, calm eyes. His thumb rubs over Harry’s palms even as he begins to pull away. 

“It’s only ever you,” Louis says. “You know that.” 

Harry stares down at his hands, his elegant fingers still, the cross tattoo staring back with silence. Its message of forbearance is painfully far away. 

Harry turns his head. “She gets to hold you. She gets caresses.” His head shakes, knowing that Louis is not to blame, and hating himself for the jealousy. “She gets your face. She gets your smell and your heat.” 

Louis looks down. When Harry gets angry, there is really no talking him down. He is quietly, viscerally furious. His photos always show tension in his shoulders and jaws, even as he smiles for the camera. He is the most beautiful incomplete person, an enigma who hides everything, who tucks all his petty jealousies away. There’s only one person he could ever be completely frank with, and that person is with him now, bearing it all. 

“Come on, Harry.” 

“No,” Harry says. 

Louis brings Harry’s hand to his lap, separates his fingers, and begins playing with his rings. “Don’t be like that. Let’s be happy while we’re together.” 

Harry’s wearing the new rose ring that they picked out together at the Green Frog, in London. Life and beauty. The petals of the future cast in steel. The rose ring is garish in its enormity, and Harry can never resist creating this kind of blatant melodrama, just like his tattoos of the mermaid, the butterfly, the demon bee. He makes theater around himself for the thrills. The ring is just _really fucking huge._ Louis thinks about the meaning of the ring, the safekeeping of his rose.

He turns and kisses Harry softly on the cheek. Harry has a forlorn expression on his face, his hair combed down, his eyes far away. He looks lost. Sometimes he can be forceful and stubborn, and other times he is like this, like a sixteen-year-old baby popstar, so deep in his gloom that he becomes desperately beautiful. 

“They don’t see,” Louis says. “They don’t know. What we have is for us.”

“No one ever knows.” Harry looks down. “No one really.” 

The traffic outside isn’t moving at all. The trip to Newark is thirty minutes in the best traffic. Now their drive will be well over an hour.

It isn’t a big deal to miss the flight, nor the fans or paps. Those people are sitting in cold cars, fingers numbing over their cooling coffees. Their eyes are hungrily scanning every lean and beautiful man with a narrowly tailored coat and leather boots, carrying a laptop and perhaps a guitar case. 

The seconds tick by slowly and silently inside the car. Harry is Louis’ rose. He belongs to Louis. He’s here now. His heart is here now. They only ever live in the moment: it’s all they have. 

The great thing about a professional car service was that the windows are always tinted an opaque, midnight black. They are one-way. The driver’s partition makes the back compartment soundproof. From prior experience, Louis and Harry know this very, very well.

Louis reaches over and unbuckles Harry’s skin-tight black Paige jeans. He can feel Harry’s tummy muscles flutter in response, knows how the butterfly tattoo looks when it takes flight.

Harry shifts in his seat as Louis eases him out of his jeans.

Louis puts his hand over Harry’s pants, feels the tender flesh that lies there, alive and willing.

Suddenly Harry leans over and kisses Louis. Harry’s lips are warm and dry, tender and familiar. Louis is reminded of their very first kiss, in Harry’s stepdad’s bungalow, awkward and jittery, when they had barely put their hands on each other, too scared even to look at each other. Their lips had bumbled into each other then, as if by accident. They couldn’t ask each other whether it was an experiment or a one-off. Was it possibly excitement over their position on the show? Regardless, by the second time, and third time they kissed, there was nothing uncertain about it. They wanted and longed to be with each other. They pulled each other into dark rooms and kissed furiously and madly whenever they could, hands all over each other, discovering what they liked doing together. They stripped each other down to nothing, discovering each other’s bodies. They stole their time together, behind the producers’ backs, stole love that was supposed to be for female fans on camera to give to each other. They giggled conspiratorially. Every minute was a heist. They were running with thieves. 

With this memory, Louis breaks from the kiss and leans down to mouth Harry’s cock through his pants with a warm exhalation. Harry shifts, shimmies out of them. His pelvis contracts as his semi-hard cock jerks up once, twice. Louis kisses the tip of it reverently, like a jewel atop a crown.

With the back of his hand, Harry strokes Louis’s hair, playing with his soft waves, trailing his fingers in them. Louis holds onto Harry’s hips and pulls him in, mouth around his cock. He licks Harry’s tip hard, and watches it twitch, sees the first beads of moisture gather like dew on a rose. He circles his tongue around the foreskin and pushes it back, circling the head with the muscles of his tongue, and eases a moan from Harry.

“Fuck— ”

“Shhhh, darling.” Louis twirls his tongue over the head of the cock. “Let me.”

Harry circles his arm around the top of the car seat and bucks his hip up, slowly, so that Louis can deep throat him. Louis watches Harry close his eyes, his brows knit in arousal and his lips part hungrily as a moan builds and is slowly released.

Louis licks his palm, and wraps it around the base of Harry’s cock. His mouth lingers on the tip, tongue flattened, a slow suck that drags the foreskin in and out. His hand jerks the base with practiced strokes. He takes his mouth off and licks the skin behind the cock, kisses it with a tease of his teeth, then swirls up the shaft and swallows the top again. Harry is breathing shallowly, in small, uncontrolled bursts, a moan escaping now and then, slow and horny. 

Suddenly Louis stops, takes his hand away. The cold air makes Harry open his eyes. Louis climbs into Harry’s lap. He pulls on Harry’s cock, tucks it inside his hoodie so that it’s against the bare skin of his tummy, lined up against his trail of hairs, then rubs it against himself and ruts against it. The foreskin stretches and pulls against Louis’ belly, creating a warm, slippery friction back and forth. Louis feels Harry shudder. 

“Goddamn,” Harry groans. “Fuck.”

“Only you and I will know,” Louis whispers. “Fans are going to see this hoodie, but they won’t know, will they? They’re going to see me holding hands with her, but they can’t see this. This is for you, Haz. For us.” 

Harry bites down on his lip. He can feel other people’s eyes on the hoodie, the red glow of it like a ripe cherry, like fire. The hoodie is his; Louis is his. They belong to each other. No matter what the others see.

He pushes himself closer to Louis, so that his cock and Louis’s hand smash together in the middle, with no room to breathe. He loosens Louis’ hand and knocks it away. Now his cock is against Louis’ belly, and Harry leans in, tight.

“Get your fucking pants off,” he whispers. ”Now.”

He yanks down Louis’s loose track bottoms and pulls them forcefully past the swell of his buttocks. Louis lifts himself so Harry can palm his bottom and shift him out of his pants. He adjusts to pull the bottoms and his pants down to his knees.

“What’s gotten into you?” Louis whispers.

Harry growls, “Want to fuck you.” 

He bites into the nape of Louis’s neck and palms his buttocks to spread them apart. A long fingers ghosts over Louis’s cleft. His cock tingles, being this close to Louis’ bare ass. It slides into Louis’ cleft, wetting it with precome. His tip nudges impatiently. 

“God.” Harry bites down on Louis’ skin, leaving a bruise on the skin. “Want to fuck you so bad. So bad, Louis.” 

Louis grabs onto Harry’s long curls and runs his fingers through, panting in short bursts, his hole being slowly teased open. The pressure makes him hitch his breath as he feels the wetness below. Louis bears down, forcing the tip of Harry’s cock to penetrate him, and Harry groans loudly, head tilting back and to the side as he slides in. It gives way surprisingly easily. Louis put his mouth on Harry’s sweaty neck and licks a stripe up to his jaw, sucking his skin right under the jaw, biting him. 

“Fuck!” Harry moans. “You’re so fucking hot, Tomlinson.”

Louis rises so Harry slides out, his hard cock trapped along the length of Louis’ arse cheeks. Harry chases the air, wanting back in, biting at Louis’ earlobe. 

“We don’t have lube,” Harry whispers gruffly. “I forgot to pack it. But we could try.” 

“You’re gonna dry fuck me?” Louis asks. “Just before you leave? Nice.” 

Harry buries his face in Louis’s hair, inhaling him. “I want to be inside you. In every way.”

“Lucky for you,” Louis says. He reaches into the hoodie’s pocket and pulls out a travel size tube of lube. “Vetements makes fucking big pockets.”

“No way.” Harry smirks. 

Louis nods, smiling. “I got you, babe.” 

“Tell me you don’t want it, too,” Harry leans in, sucking in Louis’ earlobe and traces the skin edges with his tongue. Louis tries to pull away, but Harry holds him close, kissing behind his ear and down his neck, making Louis hitch his breath. “Tell me you don’t want it.” He kisses Louis’ neck. “Fucking packed lube, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Louis answers. “I try to pack for all occasions.” 

“You’re my hero.” 

Harry breaks off and reaches around to unclasp his necklace. One by one, he takes off his rings, places them carefully through the chain of the necklace, and puts them in his shirt pocket.

Without a pause, his mouth goes right back behind Louis’ ear, kissing around the hairs that curl at the nape of the neck. After a few more kisses, Louis turns and connects with Harry’s lips. Their kissing grow hungry and hard. 

Harry tongues Louis’ lips open and licks in. Louis’ presses up against him, his arse warm on Harry’s thighs. He shifts and lets Harry’s cock fall right in between, jabbing him between the cheeks. He sinks down and rocks. 

Harry clicks the lube open and spreads it liberally on his hands, and then slides his fingers into the cleft of Louis’ buttocks. It feels warm and soft, muscular and toned. By now, it’s familiar, too, like diving into a favorite swimming spot, the water always perfect.

Surprisingly, Louis feels loose, open, wet. Inviting.

“What,” Harry exclaims softly. “The fuck. You prepped yourself.” 

Louis smirks. “You think I’d half-arse it?”

“I’d never describe you as half-arsed, Boo.” Harry continues. “More arse than I can handle, usually.”

“I’m a smorgasbord.” 

“Fuck, yeah.” Their eyes meet, and Harry can’t help smiling, looking into that dreamy blue. “You’re so funny, you know that? I miss you so much already.” 

“Then stop talking. I can’t do everything myself.” Louis raises himself and straddles Harry again, clenching his arse cheeks as he sinks down on Harry’s dick. It slips past and rides up, making Harry grunt. 

“Damn,” Harry moans. “You’re killing me.” 

Harry’s index finger goes in, up to the first knuckle, and he does a soft swirl, as he always does. He feels Louis relax and unclench, sink further down and push Harry’s finger in. Harry feels the small, apricot swell of the prostate, and lightly strokes it, feeling Louis jerk his hips forward like a rabbit.

“Yeah,” Louis gasps. “Fuck, yeah.” He shifts his hips to increase the friction, moving himself against Harry’s finger. “Give me more.” He grinds himself down.

Harry puts in a second finger and gently opens them. Louis hums loudly. Harry glances toward the partition at the driver. The driver can’t hear them but he can see in the rearview mirror, dimmed though it is. Harry can only see the back of his impassive and immobile head.

He leans in to whisper against Louis’s ear.

“Did you bring a condom?”

“Don’t need one,” Louis groans. “I want to ride you like a thoroughbred. Want to take you home leaking from me like a faucet.”

“It's gonna get messy, Lou.” Harry licks Louis’ neck, tasting the spicy sweetness of Louis’ aftershave. He sucks on a patch of skin and bites down, causing a shudder. “Gonna leak all over. Your arse will be swimming in it.” 

“I love it,” Louis says. “Want you to be here long after you're gone. Want that part of you that no one else can have.” Louis runs his hand through Harry’s hair. It’s growing so fast, even with regular trims. He curls his fist in it, stroking the curls upward and pulling the tendrils apart. Harry winces at his touch.

“Gonna pop you like a bruised eclair.”

Louis laughed, a husky sound. “I heard you used to be a baker?” 

“I’ve filled some cream pastries in my time,” Harry deadpans.

Louis winks. “Then fill me up, bitch.”

Harry strokes Louis’ sweet spot a few more times. Beads of sweat appear on Louis’ forehead as he trembles. Harry’s hard cocks rubs against him, the leaking head raw and sensitive with its engorged veins, red as cherries.

“Turn around,” Harry growls.

Louis twists and swings his leg over, facing forward, sitting on Harry’s lap. He leans back slightly, feeling Harry’s thick cock against his bare arse. Harry thrusts up slowly once, twice. Louis feels the heat rise up from his groin, filling him with lust.

Harry lifts him up and lets him hover over his tense cock. Louis’ rim nudges at Harry’s tip, and he works himself down, a millimeter at a time, until his arse is flush with Harry’s groin.

The car has begun to move slowly forward, rolling over a small bump in the road. They both rock forward. Louis feels an intense flash of stimulation in his prostate, kicking his cock forward, making it spurt. He groans helplessly and grabs Harry’s arms.

“Holy shit.” Louis clenches around Harry’s erect cock. “That bump.” 

In response, Harry thrusts faster, jerking his hip up and down. He feels Louis shudder, his hand gripping Harry’s arm tensely. Harry hugs him closer to himself, shifting side to side, feeling Louis squeeze down and knowing he’s close. Knees lifted slightly to increase the friction, Louis exhales, releasing a slow and uncontrolled moan.

“Fuck, Harry,” Louis stammers. “I’m seeing stars, not even kidding.”

Harry pushes up and forward, and Louis feels it again, the intensity making him moan. He holds Harry’s arms down and rocks onto the spot, fast, tight motions, bouncing in and out. Harry brings his hand around and pushes Louis’s cock against his belly, trapping it, mashing it against skin, rubbing the soft skin to and fro, his large hand working the skin with only the palm. Coming up to the edge, Louis is moaning almost continuously, his breathing coming in spurts and stops. Harry hits the spot over and over, his cock stroking Louis’ prostate each time. He knows how to push Louis, after all. He can bring him to orgasm in a second if he wants to. 

“Harry, I love you.” Louis breathes high and fast. “Darling, I— ”

“Shh,” Harry growls, his raspy voice low. “Louis, the driver.” 

“He’s on the road, isn’t he?” Louis groans back. “And I’m on you… you…” The car is at a standstill again, the only motion in the backseat, where the heat smudges the partition. “Fuck. You feel incredible, Haz. I’m so fucking close.” 

“I know.” 

“Fuck you.” Louis let out an involuntary moan.

“I’m trying,” Harry said, driving his cock hard into Louis. 

“God, I love your cock,” Louis gasped. “A whole fucking lot.” 

“I love giving you cock.” 

Louis nods fervently, his mouth ringed in a high moan. 

Harry jerks his hips quicker, moving his hand rougher. Louis groans and holds his breath, being absolutely still. Then waves overcome him, and he spills into Harry’s hand, strands of thick white fluid rolling down Harry’s slender fingers.

Louis raises himself and leans forward, pushing the fabric of the hoodie to his belly, smearing the come on it. The fabric encases Harry’s hand, still on his cock.

Harry fucks harder into Louis, his eyes closed, concentrating now. Louis is still holding onto his hand. Harry sees the hoodie in a pap walk with Eleanor, an invisible spot of love that no one else will see. It’s his. Louis is his. Will always be his.

With an extended moan, Harry ejaculates into Louis, his come spilling around him, filling the tight space with its wet messiness. He keeps pumping until he becomes soft, feeling raw and overstimulated. He wants to take a bit of Louis on the plane with him too, a reminder. The soreness is a memory.

Eventually, Harry pulls out. Louis takes off his hoodie, wipes himself with it.

“Sorry, Boo,” Harry says, watching Louis’s familiar, muscular curves. “We haven’t come like that for a while.”

“Next time you see this thing,” Louis points to the hoodie, “remember this. It's our special hoodie, right? It's got both of our jizz on it.”

“That is so sweet.”

“Well. You know me. Romantic fucker.” 

They pull their pants and trousers up. They’re almost out of the city; the last buildings in lower Manhattan drag by outside the window. The car speeds on towards New Jersey.

“You know what this kind of reminds me of?” Harry says.

“What?”

“That one time we were in Simon’s office.”

“Which time?” Louis cocks an eye.

“At the end of OTRA, when we were in London.” Harry raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Just before the O2?”

“Yeah.”

“I remember the fucking. Is that what you mean?”

Harry giggles. “Yeah.”

Louis turns his body to look at Harry, puzzled. Then, looking into Harry’s reflective green eyes, he remembers. He can see the corner of Harry’s mouth lift into a coy smirk. 

“The contract.” Louis’ eyes widen. 

“Mmm.” Harry is buzzing with the memory.

“Of course I remember, love,” Louis cackles loudly. 

An image flashes into Louis’s mind. They had been summoned for a meeting about RBB/SBB. Louis had taken such liberties with the bears that summer, he knew he was in deep shit. Simon had asked them to come to the Syco offices the day of the O2 performance, just Harry and Louis, without Niall or Liam. Simon was running late, or maybe was making them wait on purpose. They were in his office. His secretary was sitting on the other side of the opaque glass door.

It was the start of the U.K. leg of OTRA, the beginning of the end. They were euphoric with anticipation. The end was in sight.

Louis had winked at Harry then.

“For old time sake, Harry? Let’s do something fun. A once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

“Like what?”

Soon Louis was hunched over Simon’s desk, and Harry was fucking him hard. They thought about Simon never calling them in as a group again. They thought about headlines describing how One Direction was leaving Simon. They thought about never coming back to this office, to the X Factor stage.

Just before Louis came, he grabbed whatever papers were on Simon’s desk, and put it in front of himself. Then he put both hands on the desk, shaking with the violent, rocking motion of being fucked, grunting with the force of Harry coming in him, in Simon’s office.

“Touch me, Harry,” Louis commanded him. He could feel the mountain of pressure behind him, about to release.

Harry lifted a hand from Louis’s hip bone and put it on his cock. It was hard yet so soft, the velvety skin warm and slippery.

“Go,” Louis had said. “I’m so close. Fuck these bastards, Harry.” 

Harry rocked his hips like a champ, hitting Louis in the right way until he was biting back sick moans. He wrapped his hand around Louis and jerked fluently. His face was buried in Louis’ neck, smelling him and breathing hard.

Louis brought his hand back to play with Harry’s hair, his lovely Rapunzel locks. He tangled his fingers with them.

“I’m in love with you, Harry Styles.” 

“Lou,” Harry whispered, pumping harder and out of breath. “Love you too. So much.”

Louis wrapped a finger around Harry’s curls and pulled, bringing him to the brink. 

“No matter what,” Louis said. “I’ll always love you.”

And with that, Harry had grunted, bursting hard, come shooting into the condom. His dick pulsed and ebbed, and he knew Louis could feel himself filling up. His hand circled the tip of Louis’s leaking cock. He used a thumb to spread the precome, squeeze and rub under the tip just the way Louis liked. With a few tight strokes, Louis spurted across the papers in front of him, streaks of thick white come everywhere.

They realized that the office was filled with the smell of sex and semen. It was unmistakable. Simon would know, immediately, without even seeing the used condom in the bin.

When they looked down at the papers, they realized that it was a copy of their artists’ contract, in which specific clauses had been highlighted with a fluorescent pen. These were surely the clauses they had broken with the bears. The ink glimmered through Louis’ come like an underwater treasure. 

Harry, his cock still inside Louis, honked out a laugh. “Motherfucker.”

Louis started shaking, half from nerves and half from the hilarity. Simon was going to bust a fucking nut. 

“I came,” Louis said, “I saw, I conquered.”

Harry elbowed him. “Yeah, you did.”  
“Fuck.” Louis laughed in mild hysteria. “Might have gone a bit too far.” 

“We’ll clean it up.” Harry slid out, tame and limp. “Fuck the contract. We’re free.” 

_We’re free. We’re free._

The car starts moving quickly through traffic and merging onto the highway to New Jersey. It is only a few more minutes. 

Then Harry will be in the airport, hair a mess and laptop carrying his whole life: his album, the artwork, the photo shoots, all of his contacts and important documents. It has everything that he will become. 

Louis will head back to their flat. He has a few errands to run before he takes off for England. He’ll call Lottie and Fizzy, send a text off to the twins to make sure they’re doing alright. He’ll check the calendar for the week. But he can’t call his mother, even if instinct makes him do so. He might call her phone to listen to her voice, one last time. At least that’s what he always tells himself— just one more time. Surely he hasn’t memorized every inflection and pop on the answer phone.

Louis puts his head down on the partition in front of him. All at once, he’s tired. He doesn’t particularly want to go home alone. Maybe in an alternate universe, he wouldn’t have to. He would get out with Harry. They would get on a plane together. They’d fall asleep next to each other, after some tiny bottles of vodka and tomato juice.

“Louis?” Harry wraps both arms around him. “What’s wrong?” 

Louis stays quiet. The silence is large, and Harry knows Louis’ mind is on London, on Jay. It’s a particular, infinite kind of helplessness that even love can't fill.

“I love you,” Harry tells him. His body envelopes Louis, warming his lean, tense muscles. Harry rubs his face on Louis’ back, and folds himself across Louis’ taut shoulders.

Louis breathes slowly. Minutes fly by. Cars zoom past them, left and right. The airport comes into sight.

“I miss her.” Louis turns his head to the side, resting his cheek on his shoulder. “Sorry.”

“I know, my darling.” Harry kisses the back of Louis’s head. “Me too.”

Louis pauses, eyes staring straight ahead, focused on nothing. His throat tightens. Despite his self control, a tear begins to pool in the corner of an eye. It promises to fatten.

“Will it ever be okay?” Louis’ voice is low, drained of emotion, yet the saddest sound Harry has ever heard. 

Harry knows it is a rhetorical question. But he answers anyway. “It will. One day, Boo, it will be better. I know it will. It takes time.” 

Harry’s breath hitches, and he looks away, tearing up too. It isn’t just Simon, or stalkers or paps or fake girlfriends. It is also not being able to tell the world that they both loved Jay. That Jay loved them both, as family. That what she felt, and what they had, was a partnership beyond romance or music. She hadn't been only Louis Tomlinson’s mother. She had been their best friend, their confidant, their champion, their defender. She had nourished them and fought for them. She was their mother bear, the beautiful lady who came out swinging, whose spirit was larger than all of them. 

Harry kisses the back of Louis’ head and doesn’t let go. His own full tear runs down Louis’ hair, making a wet trail. He can feel Louis shaking silently, his chest heaving in and out.

“She loved you, Harry,” Louis says, brokenly. “From the very beginning. She loved you so much.” He moves his head, wiping his cheek against his hands.

“Oh, Lou.” Harry puts his face against Louis’ back. He closes his eyes. “I know. I know all that.” 

“I miss her.” Louis leans into his wrist, covering up his eyes. “Miss her so much.”

Harry had put away all the photograph books, shelved her photos, all except one, sitting in a frame in his studio. It was one he had taken of Louis and Jay, in black and white. They had just come home from the TMH tour, and there was an afternoon when all of Louis’ sisters were at school. Harry, Louis, and Jay were stood drinking tea by the kitchen window. The light was so beautiful that Harry ran off and got his manual 35 mm. In the midst of one of Harry’s jokes, Louis had turned his head obliquely, laughing, and Jay was facing him with a look of amusement and love. The candid was a bit blurry around the edges, from the dim light and slight motion, but Jay and Louis were in perfect focus. Time was easy and fluid then. Life was charging forward.

Harry says gently, “She sees you, Louis. She sees us. She knows.” 

Harry tries to put Louis’ feelings above his own grief, but Jay is constantly in his mind too— her wide-set eyes reminding him of Louis, her laughter, the feel of her hands as she sheltered both of them in her arms. Her voice calming them down, her reassuring hand on his back as he cried.

The car pulls off the exit to the Newark Departures terminal. Harry hugs Louis tighter, unwilling to let go. Louis’ bones are sharp, his shoulders slight. Harry can almost feel him slipping through.

Finally, they come to a stop. The driver parks by the curb, gets out, walks around to open the trunk and take out Harry’s duffle, hoisting the strap onto his shoulder. He comes up the curb and talks into his phone while Harry and Louis wait inside.

A few minutes later, Harry’s two bodyguards arrive in a separate car. They park behind the Escalade and greet the hired driver, shaking his hand. They look impassively at the rear door of the Escalade, then off into the distance, scanning for paps. 

A white dove soars high above, landing on a ledge above the entranceway to the airport. Another drifts down from the sky, out of nowhere, and another, and another. Soon the ledge is full of cooing doves. They perch, facing the Escalade, a noisy chorus line of angels. Glancing out of the window, Louis’ eyes follow them as they land. The eminence of birds make him smile. They call up a distant memory of walking with his mum.

When Louis was a toddler, he and his mother used visit Sandall Park nearly every day. Jay kept a pocketful of breadcrumbs, leaking them to lure birds, so that Louis would think they were magically following him. The doves would fly excitedly around them, twittering and calling, eventually becoming tame enough to land on their bodies, perch on their fingers. Louis loved it so much that Jay made it a habit, feeding birds so he could squeal and chase after them. It was all fun and games until one flew into the toilet in their house, literally scaring the crap out of Louis. _Never again,_ he swore. _No more birds._

Now the doves seem to be congregating in silence, for her. How funny it was to see them in America, as if time and distance had accordioned into two dimensions! 

Louis quickly shakes his head and turns back to Harry. “Well, love. See you in London.” 

Harry clears his throat, and roughly rubs the corner of his eye. “I’ll see you next week,” he says. “I love you. Don’t ever forget that.” 

Louis leans toward him and pecks him near the still-wet corner of his mouth. “I won’t.”

Harry’s hair is literally in every direction. He looks as if goblins ran into his head and ransacked it. Or as if he got ravished in the back of a hired car. 

Proud of it, Louis runs his hand through the thick curls. “Messed you up proper.” 

Harry sniffs in deeply and cleans his face with a giant paw. “That's what sunglasses are for.” He takes the YSL sunglasses out of his shirt pocket, unfolds them and pushes back the strands. “I’m ready to rock ‘n roll, baby.”

“Sexy.” The word also describes Louis’ voice.

“Because of you,” Harry says. His eyes are drinking Louis in, every last drop. “You make me wonderful.”

“You’re already wonderful.”

“No, _you_ are.” Harry taps Louis on the tip of his nose. “Don’t forget your hoodie, yeah?”

Without another glance, Harry opens the door and steps out.

  
  
  
  
  
  
• The End •

Much thanks to [ Wallace Stevens ](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/13261/sunday-morning) for the white doves. 

**Author's Note:**

> The story is open-ended. I have another canon-compliant fic which is 11k but probably won’t be published, from the end of OTRA onward. Everything is too heartbreaking in retrospect. Please forgive any inaccuracies in facts or timeline. 
> 
> Having said that, this was a story of fiction, entirely imagined, not meant to imply actual events. Please do not repost elsewhere or translate without permission. Thanks for reading. I have loved all of your comments and support. XO.


End file.
